


The Retelling of the Philosopher's Stone

by lucia_kaku



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon, Modern AU, Retelling, tfw you start a new project thanks to a stupid conversation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-27 01:41:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20399581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucia_kaku/pseuds/lucia_kaku
Summary: I love these books and grew up thinking WAY too many deep thoughts about them, and about life in their world. Armed with the knowledge of the entire series of published books, as well as my own 'wouldn't it be funny if' ideas, I decided to retell them.





	The Retelling of the Philosopher's Stone

The Dursleys woke up one perfectly normal Tuesday to their perfectly normal lives, exactly the way they liked it. Nothing strange or mysterious ever happened to them, but even if it did, they’d never tell a soul.

Vernon Dursley was a large man, round and stout, with a perpetually red face dominated by an exceedingly bushy mustache. Petunia Dursley was a severe woman, thin and looming, with a nose just right for peering over fences at her neighbors. Their small son Dudley was the finest boy to be found anywhere, and no one could convince them otherwise.

Neither Vernon nor Petunia had thought about Petunia’s sister and her family in many years. It was better that way. Only _normal _people were welcome in the Dursleys’ home on Privet Drive, and the Potters were the least normal people either of them ever had the displeasure of encountering. They would have happily gone on with their lives never thinking of the Potters again, but such was not to be.

Their day began, as it often did, with a Dudley tantrum. Petunia cooed at him while he knocked cereal out of her hands. Vernon was on his way out the door. He attempted a kiss, but missed the flailing cheek. Instead, he and his wife shared a fond look—what a precocious little boy he was—and off he went.

No one noticed the tawny owl outside.

In fact, mysterious things happened all around Vernon the entire day. And actually, all across the country. Just on the corner of Privet Drive, he spotted one for the first time, but not the last: a tawny cat, with strangely spectacle-like markings around its eyes, reading a map. But when he took a second look, there was no map in sight.

Convinced he must have been mistaken, he continued on his way. But something made him glance in his rearview at the cat. It looked up at the street sign then strolled down his block, curiously just like a person would. He huffed into his mustache and turned his mind to his firm. Anyway, what did he know about cats?

Vernon’s firm, Grunnings, made drills. As the director, he had many important things on his mind, like a large order due to arrive that day. He didn’t have time for nonsense about cats. Or ... cloaks?

In a traffic jam on the edge of town, his gaze wandered to the people walking by. Many of whom were dressed quite strangely. What was this, some silly new fashion? He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, his red face growing more ruddy with each bright color that caught his eye. Offensive enough to wear such a get-up, but the _colors_. Young people had no sense of propriety. Honestly, who wore a huge length of bulky cloth in such violent pink? He scowled at the offending pedestrian only to notice _grey hair_.

Vernon’s mustache seemed to bristle as he gripped his steering wheel and looked straight ahead. Unconscionable. Some people never gained an ounce of maturity. Disgraceful.

By the time he pulled into the Grunnings’ parking lot, he had successfully brought his focus back to drills. It stayed that way all morning, too. With his back to the window in his office, Vernon didn’t notice the multitude of owls crossing the sky over the city. Rather, he spent a productive morning shouting, making important phone calls, and finishing paperwork.

His day would’ve remained mostly normal and his mood undamaged had he not gone across the road for lunch at the bakery.

Confronted with a whole group of the strange people from before, all with their heads together and gossiping, Vernon drew himself up and set about ignoring them. This had to be some kind of stunt. Perhaps for some type of charity. Yes. The thought gave him some comfort and resolved much of his anger. Though it was patently _ridiculous_, he could at least approve of good causes.

When the left the bakery, bag in hand, he took a real look at them. They didn’t seem to have any uniformity, in either color or style of cloak, and worse—not a single collecting tin. If this was a stunt for some cause, it was done with not a single thought toward efficiency.

And he would’ve been happy to go back to his day thinking them well-meaning but stupid people, had their whispers not caught his ear on his way past.

“Oh no, not the Potters.”

“That’s what I heard, too.”

“But not their son, Harry.”

“What?!”

Vernon’s naturally red face had never achieved that peculiar shade of pasty white before. He missed a step and almost tripped over the curb. Whatever they were talking about, he didn’t want to hear any more.

He dashed back to his office, his stomach lodged firmly in his toes. Just before slamming his door shut, he snapped at his secretary not to disturb him, threw himself into his chair, and was on his phone before he could think better of it.

His thick thumb hovered over his wife’s name on the screen. He stopped, set the phone down, sat back in his chair, stroked his mustache. No real need to worry Petunia. He had been startled by the name ‘Potter’ said by such strange people. Strange _like _the Potters.

They might not even have a son. He had rather thought they did, and that he had an H-name, but perhaps he was mistaken. Yes. That made much more sense.

But did anything about those people make sense?

No, no. Best not to think about it. He didn’t want to upset Petunia over nothing. And so what if they were discussing _those _Potters? What was Vernon supposed to do about it? It certainly had nothing to do with his family and their lives. Whatever may or may not have happened to the Potters, it was none of his business.

The more he told himself not to worry, the harder it was to concentrate on drills. So much so, that when he left the building at five o’clock, he bumped right into someone.

“Sorry,” he grunted before he noticed the tiny man was dressed in a violet cloak.

Quite the opposite of upset, he had a wide grin as he regained his balance. “Don’t be sorry, my dear sir!” His voice was exuberant and squeaky, drawing the attention of passersby. “Today is a happy, happy day! You-Know-Who is no more!” He hugged Vernon right around the middle. “This victory belongs to us all, even Muggles such as yourself!” And with a spring in his step, he went on his way.

Vernon took much longer to gather himself than the stranger had. His mouth hung open ever so slightly, his limbs locked up in shock. It was all so strange, from the gibberish (what was a ‘Muggle’, and why had he been called one?) to the hug. What self-respecting Englishman _hugged _a complete stranger?

Rather than dwell on any of that, he hurried home. Only to be met with the cat again. He knew it was the same one, for it had the same square markings around its eyes.

Thoroughly fed up with anything out of the ordinary, Vernon scowled at the cat. “Shoo!” It didn’t move. He clapped at it, figuring the loud noise would startle it. But he only received a stern look in response.

Unsure what to make of being wordlessly scolded by an animal, on top of everything else so far that day, Vernon went into the house.

Petunia had had a perfectly normal day. The neighbors had been arguing, and Dudley had learned a new word. She even got him to say it for his father by trying to coax him to drink his milk. “Won’t!”

“That’s my boy.” Vernon’s grin felt tight on his face.

After Dudley had been put to bed, he turned on the news, hoping for some financial reports or weather or some new development in some Ministry or other. Instead, it underscored the unusual events of the day, going on about all the owls that had been flying about—which Vernon hadn’t seen, so yet _another _strange occurrence—and apparently shooting stars all over Britain.

It seemed the entire country had gone mad overnight. Which would be frustrating and uncomfortable on its own, but that whisper of the Potters....

Petunia arrived with tea. He accepted his cup, but didn’t drink. Instead, he cleared his throat over it, working over words.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

Oh dear. “Ah, well, that is, you—er, you haven’t heard from your sister, have you?”

“No,” she snapped. “Why?”

“Nothing really,” Vernon mumbled. How was he supposed to bring up what he heard in town now? “Been a strange day.” He gestured vaguely at the TV. “All this funny stuff on the news, and these people in town were....” He couldn’t think of a good word.

“So?”

“It’s nothing.”

They sipped their tea, the subtext heavy in the air. Anything out of the ordinary made Petunia especially think about her sister, and the people they were involved with.

But he couldn’t get that whisper out of his mind. “They don’t have any children, do they?”

“A son. Harry.” She spat the name. “Just as common a name as his father’s.”

“Ah. That’s right.” If only he’d been mistaken.

His only solace, as he readied for bed and kept his peace from his wife, was that whatever had happened to the Potters, if it was indeed the same Potters, it had nothing to do with his family.

Unburdened by denial, the cat on the wall outside remained where it was hours after all the lights in number four went out. Well after all the lights on Privet Drive had finally darkened, except those lining the road.

Around midnight, the first sign of movement didn’t come from the cat at all. It came from the corner of the street, exactly where the cat was watching. A strange crack sounded, like a whip, and a man appeared without having taken a step.

In a day that saw many strange people about, none were as strange as Albus Dumbledore. He was tall, his age advertised with long silver hair and beard, his thinness disguised by his long robes and purple cloak. As if that wasn’t enough, he also wore high-heeled boots with stylish buckles. Half-moon spectacles accented his sparkling blue eyes and his long, crooked nose.

Dumbledore rummaged about in his cloak, seemingly without a care in the world. At one point, he peered out of the corner of his eye at the cat, still staring at him from down the street. He chuckled.

Finally, he pulled what appeared to be a silver lighter from an inner pocket. When he clicked it, however, rather than producing a flame, it extinguished a street lamp. He clicked once for each lamp on the street until Privet Drive was shrouded in shadow. Satisfied with his handiwork, he replaced it and strolled down the street toward the cat.

He settled himself on the wall next to it. “And a good evening to you, Professor McGonagall.”

Dumbledore turned to smile, not at a cat, but at a hawkish woman with square spectacles and a tight bun under a pointed hat. Her cloak was emerald and drawn tight about her in indignation.

She sniffed. “Good evening, indeed.”

He quirked his wiry eyebrows in concern. “Why so stiff, today of all days?”

Minerva McGonagall sighed and finally seemed to relax, but only by a bare fraction. “I’ve been watching these people all day, Albus. I don’t like this one bit.”

Whether he knew what she meant or not, Dumbledore didn’t seem concerned by it. “Like what in particular?” he asked, as he rummaged about in his robes again.

“Do you know anything about these people?” McGonagall scowled over her shoulder at number four. “This isn’t a good place for him. Not to mention how careless all the celebrations have become. Heard all about it on their news. Even the Muggles know something is happening.”

His smile was soft and wistful. “Careless, perhaps, but understandably so. The Muggles will explain it away or forget in time. Let them have their joy.”

Determined to hold onto her mood, she shook her head. “They could at least have the sense to wear Muggle clothes when out in broad daylight.”

“Ah. Well, I will have to defer to you in the sense department.” His hand emerged with a crinkled package. “I’ve never had much use for it, myself.”

McGonagall watched him pick at the contents of the package. “You won’t reconsider?”

“Having sense? Oh, I tried it in my youth. Much too stressful. Lemon drop?” Dumbledore held the package out to her as he popped one in his mouth.

“I beg your pardon?”

“A Muggle sweet. I’m quite fond of them.”

She didn’t even look at the package. “No thank you. Reconsider leaving the boy _here_ of all places.”

It seemed Dumbledore didn’t answer for a long moment in order to take the time to savor the candy in his mouth. “There’s nowhere better for him.”

“Perhaps in the days of You-Know-Who, I might have agreed. The Potters were in hiding for a reason. But now that he’s gone, it’s not dangerous any longer. We could find any number of families happy to take in a boy—especially _this _boy—and care for him.”

One wiry brow rose in her direction. “I would’ve thought you too sensible to keep up this ‘You-Know-Who’ nonsense.”

She worked her tongue in her mouth for a long moment. “Habit. Must you focus on the inconsequential things I say?”

Dumbledore tilted his head back to gaze up at the sky. The darkened street made it easier to spot the occasional shooting star. “It must be beautiful out in the country.” He sighed. “How many celebrations do you think there are?”

McGonagall’s already thin mouth pressed into a tight line. But this was his way. She couldn’t rush him. “As many as there are homes to hold them, I’d imagine.”

“They celebrate the return of a peace long desired, but also the boy that brought it to them.”

“The boy who lived,” she said quietly.

“Quite the catchy title. One that could inspire stories and legends. Certainly not one that will be quickly forgotten. A legacy. One difficult for anyone to live up to, let alone a child.”

She could see his point by now. Nevertheless, she cast another scowl at the house behind them.

“For the gift of peace he gave us, I would like to give something in return.” Dumbledore spread his hands. “But what can you give an orphan, other than a good home?”

McGonagall leveled her sternest professor look at him. “If you wish a good home, you should take a few hours or a day to see what you’re giving him instead.”

“Ah, would that I could create the perfect place for him.” Though his silver hair and crinkled eyes told of his age, only now did he look _old_. “Alas, we must choose between allowing him a place free from his fame to grow, or a place where he belongs. If you have a better compromise, I’m listening.”

Of course, she did not.

“I’ve written them a letter—”

McGonagall scoffed.

“Inadequate though it is, it will have to do.” A low thrumming filled the air. Dumbledore rose from the wall. “Any further protests, Minerva?” The question was fond but sincere.

She followed suit and brushed dirt from her cloak so as to have something to do. “I trust your judgment.” Her tone implied _but I don’t have to like it._

As the thrumming grew into a roar, she looked around with a frown. “How exactly are you getting him here?”

“Hagrid’s bringing him.”

Her silent disapproval was as palpable a presence as the growing din of the engine, but it was far too late to do anything about it.

Finally, a motorcycle dropped out of the sky and landed in the middle of the street. Astride it was an enormous man, dwarfing the size of the not insubstantial vehicle. Nearly twice Dumbledore’s height, he was many times wider. Intimidating size matched intimidating appearance—with wild, tangled hair and beard, leather boots, and scruffy, layered clothes. Though he seemed the type to smash through doors and start fights, his dark eyes were soft and kind as they looked down at the bundle of blankets in his massive arms.

“Hagrid, well done.” Dumbledore sighed with relief and went into the street to meet him. “Where did you get the motorcycle?”

“Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir.” The giant carefully extracted himself from the bike. “It’s Sirius Black’s.”

“Any problems?”

“No sir. House is no more’n firewood, bu’ I got ‘im out while everyone was still too scared t’come out an’ look.” His smile was too wide to be hidden even by the massive beard. “Fell ‘sleep over Bristol.”

Gingerly, he handed the bundle over to Dumbledore. They all looked down at the sleeping baby boy nestled among the blankets. He seemed wholly unremarkable except for one detail: just under his sleep-rumpled black hair was a vivid cut, shaped like a bolt of lightning.

“Is that—” McGonagall whispered.

“Yes,” Dumbledore said. The enormity of what that little mark meant impressed a moment of silence on the three. Finally, Dumbledore turned away. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Ah, sir?” Hagrid bit his lip. “Could—could I say goodbye to him, sir?” He bent down to deliver such a scratchy kiss, it was a miracle little Harry didn’t wake up. Even more astonishing was sleeping through the veritable howl of anguish the giant let out next.

“Hagrid, control yourself,” McGonagall hissed.

“Sorry,” he wailed. “Jus’ so sad, innit?” He pulled a large, dirty handkerchief from his jacket and scrubbed at his face. He sniffled, doing his best to remain quiet. McGonagall gave him an awkward pat or two on the arm.

Dumbledore stepped over the low wall and approached number four.

He gently laid Harry down on the doorstep and nestled the letter in among the blankets, so it wouldn’t blow away. He rejoined the others, and the three of them stood for a long moment, watching the little bundle. Hagrid blew his nose. McGonagall seemed to have misplaced her severity. And Dumbledore’s shoulders sagged with too much weight.

“Well.” Dumbledore’s voice was thicker than it should’ve been. “That’s our business concluded.”

“Yeah, I’ll jus’ ... take Sirius’ his bike back.” Hagrid swiped at his eyes again and tucked the handkerchief away. “G’night, Professor McGonagall, Professor Dumbledore, sir.”

The two professors remained until the roar of the engine faded into the night.

“I hope you’re right about this, Albus.” McGonagall took a deep breath and gathered herself.

“As do I. I shall see you soon.” With a nod, they parted ways. Dumbledore paused on the corner to return the light to the streetlamps. A tawny tail flicked out of sight on the other end of the street.

“Good luck, Harry.” With one last look at the bundle, Dumbledore turned on his heel. A swish of his cloak, a crack of parting air, and he was gone.

Through all the commotion, Harry Potter slept on. He rolled away from the sudden light, burying his face in his blankets. Too young to remember, far too young to understand, he slept through the night while people all over the country celebrated him in secret. That he lived was a miracle, a gift to strangers far and wide.

But for now, if the Dursleys had any say, he was a perfectly normal boy, thank you very much.


End file.
